Going through the ole’ HCwDB archives one day and I stumbled into an assortment of unholy steaming ferret load of a toad pimple from way back in the dark days of Hottie/Douchey defenestration in 2010.

This simmering simpering simian shreds any sense of societal dignity and post-Nietzschean respek by pretending he doesn’t care about the very optic gaze for whom he seeks refractive corporeal validation.

By not giving a canary fling, he flings his canary. He bops his Bopeep. An inversion of a mystery wrapped in a riddle, surrounded by Enigma, all not changing the delightful life force that is Kelly-Lynn after Pilates class.

I am honored, humbled, and filled with the tingliest of shmeg tickle to see that this ole’ web relic of the late aughts and early 10s still gets a little foot traffic in the age of internet Borg control and hive mind Chris Hardwick faux nerd blankness.

If, at any point, you found the hottie/douchey mock to entertain, enlighten, enrage, or another adjective that begins with “e,” I am grateful.

But your humbs narrator is still kicking his ubiquitous red cup o’ Night Train, munching on tasty Hostess products whenever possible, raising two little HCs, and staring at the world cockeyed and bemused, or maybe more bleary eyed and vaguely nauseous. But still keepin’ on as best I can in a world of too many Aryan crypto-Nazi movie stars named Chris and not nearly enough Madchen Amick.

What a flaming Slouvakian dumpster fire. I don’t just mean this pic of Zach and his Bro, K-Whizz greasing up on Marissa as if her derriere is hosting a bake sale featuring a trenbolone sandwich. I’m talking bigger ‘bags to fry. Yes, even douchier than these spectacular meatwads.

In four days a tangerine uvula will spittle across our collective national identity like an angry, castrated llama gnawing on a Jolly Rancher.

For shame, America.

You have given in to the dark forces of greasy pec butt fondle spikewank.

It’s like a fourth grade purple nurple delivered by Timmy Flynn to poor Gavin MacGarninkle mated with a greased up Arizona cactus and then that hybrid being vomited up a Poltergeist II tequila worm, only to see that purple cactus worm vomit hybridity coalesce into human form just to pinch Victoria’s tooter.

You are a human Zika virus. A walking Walking Dead walker with the rotting, fetid stench of seasons five through seven seeping through every cell of your corporeal body. Every pixel of your online presence. You are to be psychologically and conceptually quarantined. Forever.

I curse you with every elemental fiber of my being. I expunge you with every ounce of my soul, my shmeg, and my spirit. Let you be forever damned as the rank choadscrote that you chose to become due to your own misguided volition.

You deserve no forgiveness.

You deserve no retrial.

You are hereby cast out.

You are not a part of the legitimate discourse of a civil society. And you are certainly not invited to my next birthday party. And that party will be awesome. It will contain real people. It will have cheese dip. And premium gouda. And tasty Hostess treats. Yes, even Chocodiles. And people with actual souls. People with consciousness. From Socrates to Billy Ocean. The collective progress of Humankind. Of which you are no longer a member. Sorry, toad pimple. You forever vanquished your right to lay claim to the progression narrative of the human race.

You are douche.

But not just any douche. We need an invented moniker for the hypertext vortex of ferret pus suckage that you embody in the apex of wretchedness that your life choices reached. You are not merely standard issue douche. Nor are you an amusingly eccentric scrotey nitwank. You fall neither hither nor thither on the spectrum of ‘bag.

You are a new form of pimple lick. A collage assemblage of various marsupial poo, each a differing shade of fecal brown. The collective effect is one of patchwork shite. To name you a single feces is to do a disservice to the many sphincters and colons that collectively excreted the various elements that make up your kaleidoscopic dung discharge.

As such, we are at an impasse. For there are not enough neologisms to express my contempt for your retched life choices that you exemplify, occupy, taint, or otherwise smear with the vile spittle that pours forth like mildewy Mountain Dew from your scaly manure-built form.

You have an excuse for your actions, I’m sure. You hated Hillary. You just wanted a tax break. You wanted a certain kind of Supreme Court justice or just thought it would be hi-larious to mix it up by voting for an orange simian rhesus hemorrhoid.

Unacceptable.

Shove it up your ass like a week old slurpee stained dumpster outside a 7-11 in Sheboygan. Even if that 7-11 was once a White Castle. And even if the memories of those savory square burgers still haunts its myopic walls. The dumpster don’t lie. Once you pulled the lever for a preening con-man sexual abuser, you exemplified the narcissistic diuretic spew of that most craven core embodiment of American Douchebaggery.

For what is a douchebag if not you? Douches ignore the larger world in favor of the narcissistic self. ‘Bags discard consciousness, thought, communication, and honesty in service of core lizard-brain pleasures rooted in cartoonish fantasy. The fist pump and the hair gel are nothing more than extensions of amoral self-worship. And so is the Trump vote.

And therefore ipso facto cognito ergo leggo, so the mucky muck are you. You sorry, pathetic milk teat on the taint of a toad.

Douche.

You.

I’m talking to you.

You never shaved your chest but voted for Trump? You are douche. You never chugged a Bud Light Lime while calling a girl “bro” but voted for Trump? Douche.

I hereby micturate on your rug for all eternity. Because you live in the age of infinite, accessible information laying at your fingertips. And yet you chose ignorance and hysteria over consciousness and thought. Enlightenment beckoned. And you chose the Great Orange Darkness.

There is only one course of action left.

“Hot Chicks with Douchebags” calls for a complete and total shunning of all Trump voters from every aspect of respectable life. You aren’t just to be mocked for eternity. You are to be held in utter fucking contempt by all that value anything beyond the navel gaze. All that value the notion of humanity above primal animal urges and violent impulses of the jungle.

To the millions of us on the side of righteousness, I call on you to join me. Participate in this collective shunning of those that deserve nothing but shun. De-friend any Trumpdouches in your midst. If they’re family? Cut them off. Scientology style.

Gone. Dismissed. Forever.

They do not deserve reasoning. They do not deserve negotiation. They do not deserve even a rabbit fart iota of respek.

In the Trumpdouche. The faux tribal tattoo on the bicep of humanity. They deserve to be scrubbed off and flushed down the toilet as soon as possible. As soon as the rest of us can gather enough Lysol to scrub your toxicity away. Forever.

This is our next challenge. Our calling. This is a war. Choose your side. And do not go weak kneed simply because a meat-sack in human form resembles an actual human when justifying their Faustian bargain.

View them for what they are. Condemn them for failing to be what could so easily have been theirs. A world of knowledge. Intelligence. Humanity.

Like some crusty psychological remnant from the deepest darkest orbs of the inner ear crawling outward, Trek II style, to reveal itself.

All is not as it appeared to be in the progression narrative we call the future.

The malignant forces of systemic malaise have arrived to writ their vengeance, to suck the last dregs of humanity from the decaying plastic corpses of the once human and soulful.

Ten years ago I started Hot Chicks with Douchebags to mock the accelerated development of exaggerated hyper-masculinity. I hoped to highlight the absurdities of performing “maleness” by showing what it had really become: a toxic spectacle brought about by the increasing emphasis on visual stimulation in the internet age.

Faced with scrambling of traditional gender roles and a growing multicultural world, I watched in horror as young, suburban white men of privilege were rendered apathetic and clueless by self-indulgent crap parenting, too much disposable income, and an ethos of amoral narcissism. The pleasures of Cheetos and Chill polluted and infected the mind, replaced by primal sexual urges masquerading as identity. No surprise that these drifting males, devoid of ethos and purpose, took to pectorial inflating, tribal tattooing, ‘roidally pumping, greasy brand name oiling, orange tanning, ab shaving, crusty hair spiking, ridiculous facial fung curating, and overpriced t-shirt purchasing lunacy.

I saw this corrosion spreading like choadwanks off the shoulder of Orion. Identity lost. Like beads of sweat underneath a spray-tan rain.

It had to be mocked. Ridiculed. As Foucault taught us, only humiliation can break through the constructed prism of false consciousness and really stupid doucheface.

You elected to join me. And for years, there was push-back. Here at HCwDB we mocked thousands of ‘bags, choads, scrotes and Bleeths that transformed themselves into cartoon paper tiger road warriors and spectacles.

Their con was absurdist theater and brand name spectacle. Their bodies were their stage. And like some toilet-paper creature brought to life from 1970s-era hippie dance troupe Mummenshantz, they unspooled into nothingness.

All in the hopes of seducing and acquiring the mass media established objet d’art: the hot chick.

Her role was nothing more than objectified item of acquisition. Proof of natural selection. Evidence of self worth.

I named this corporate enhanced, psychologically polluted, culturally toxic mating ritual, “douchebaggery.” A word I plucked from obscure insult-land because I needed a term to capture the toxic transformation of the self into the cartoon. A word to describe this cultural insanity in all its atrociousness. Surreal efforts and externalization of value that previously privileged suburban masculinity had undertaken to make up for their loss of assumed cultural birthright.

For ten years, I thought we were winning the war.

And then the douchebags struck back. Their primal scream took collective form. And here we stand. As witness to the victorious summoning of their most absurdist douche Svengali.

We thought we’d won. We thought he was a crimson turd born from reality television and cartoonish lunacy. A silly-string piece of pop culture flotsam.

Boy howdy were we wrong.

HCwDB’s goal was to never underestimate the toxic dangers of raging white, masculine privilege when threatened or wounded. And yet it happened.

Turns out it was but one small step from fist pumping Vegas Red Bull choadwanks to a festering global implosion led by an orange rhesus monkey. And so here we are. The douchebags are triumphant. Electing the One Douche to ‘Bag Them All. An amoral, whiny man-child fascist clown has become their King.

Because we here at HCwDB are nothing but timely with our three-times-a-year updates, here’s our review of the recent Playstation game Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5:

——Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater 5 occasionally flirts with the joy of choadwankery and attitude that made the original four douche classics, but the gel quickly comes off.

There are a disappointing number of design and technical problems that range from inappropriate burping to flat-out untreatable STDs, making this attempt at returning the series to glory a non-starter.

Developer AsswanksOfFlorida started with a good idea: paring Tony Hawk’s Bro Skater back down to the basics of inappropriate thigh fondle of Kelly-Anne in presence of a professional photographer. You won’t be hopping off your Red Cup, exploring open clubs, or standing on a weird piece of body grease. Instead, Bro Skater 5 leaves you to test your ability to chain together monosyllabic grunts, overpriced shots, and large hair spike, much like classic Hawk. It almost works. At times, I found myself getting back into that familiar choadal rhythm that made me fall in love with the original ‘baggery. I had moments of zen that balanced the combination of learning the ab crunches, memorizing your ambiguously illegal forms of sexual harassment, and the risk-reward of when to fistpump to Bieber.

But any of that nostalgia was quickly erased by Bro Skater 5’s frustrating job prospects, bland personality, and over-reliance on a trust fund. For example, the one major addition to your arsenal is a physically impossible grope move that sends your ‘bagger rocketing down to the hotts at the press of a button. The problem here is that grope is mapped to the same button as grind, and it can’t be changed. I can’t count the number of times I intended on continuing a grope with a grind, only to accidentally slam down to the ground and end the being prosecuted for roofies. Frustrating moments pulled me out of my groove far too often.

But the most glaring thing that consistently thwarted my attempts to enjoy Bro Skater 5 were the rampant performance issues. It’s appallingly rife with alcoholism, bouts of inchoate rage, and a deep rooted hatred for one’s father, which are particularly noticeable in a game that’s primarily about how the human douchebag interacts with the hotts when traveling at high speeds. Far too often, I witnessed my character pass through academia instead of slamming into it, fly straight up into the air as though he’d stepped on a French midget named Herve, or fall on the ground for no apparent reason.

Horrified at a world in which Bowie and Prince are gone yet Neil Young still lives?

You are not alone.

Take solace, my friends.

For this strange odyssey we call 2016 can at least be ameliorated by the shared experience. The abject horror of witnessing Malthusian dystopian decay, in real time no less, requires some theraputic conceptual release, does it not?

Perhaps it is merely a temporary salve meant to obfuscate the stark, naked truth of impermanence within this mortal coil. But it at least provides at least a temporary solution to the inevitable tragedy paradox, the byproduct of the merging of consciousness with mortality.

And so I give you Shmegma McWankpuddle commingling holistically with Pert Clarissa. For within this toxic cohabit, each of us can experience a communal revulsion. Her soft talcum booty sullied by tatted up upchuckery. Together, it becomes a collective illogic beyond comprehension. But our shared witness of this impossibility offers at least momentary alleviation from a world of insanity and illogic. For if you and I can both comprehend this neon titty twister of inanity then surely there is shared experience in this dark journey of life.

Let that collective revulsion be your soothing balm in a hottie/douchey world gone increasingly cray cray. It may not be much when dudebros roam the earth with giant beards and youthful communication is primarily done through the semiotics of emojis. But at least it’s something.